


Call Me When You Get This

by Starlithorizon



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Best Friends, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Long-Distance Relationship, kind of an au just go with it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 19:45:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2823857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlithorizon/pseuds/Starlithorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan and Marcus have found themselves in a relationship, which is difficult enough when Sherlock Holmes is involved in both their lives. Add in distance and exhaustion and doubt, and perhaps these two will find that this was more than they ever bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call Me When You Get This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katasstropheee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katasstropheee/gifts).



> Sooooo this was one of the giveaway fics I did a trillion years ago, and this winner asked for a hurt/comfort Joanbell fic that would involve a protective Sherlock, as well as hugs and tea and fluff. And, well, I've had this chapter languishing on my computer for the longest time for no good reason and I'm determined to actually write this because I love the idea. I have an outline, but I'm going to be posting chapters as I write them.  
> Anyway, I might add my notes in eventually because I enjoy them and find half of them hilarious.  
> And also, and important bit about the timeline: this is basically an AU because this started waaaaay before season 3, so Joan still lives in the Brownstone and Kitty's not here because I couldn't figure out how to write her in. Just go with it, my doves.

It had been a bad idea from the start, and they both knew it. Sherlock had reminded her often enough, and in turn, she had warned Bell. But he'd just smiled disarmingly in that way that he so often did, and that was that. Joan had beamed, and Sherlock had hovered warily, and Bell had been so incredibly, beautifully bright. How had they gotten here? How had she ended up feeling like her whole chest had collapsed inward? How had all of this happened?

Maybe it wasn’t anyone’s fault. That was the more likely explanation, and that left a heavy ache in Joan. Things like this were always easiest when there was someone to pin blame to. So all she could do was mourn the things that she had lost, the possibilities that had been taken from her.

She knew that it would be a bad idea. She knew that it would be rough. But, knowing all that she did, after everything, she would never have chosen another route. This was the only choice she ever would have made.

* * *

“Hey, Joan, can I get a minute?” Detective Bell asked as Joan and Sherlock were leaving. They’d just wrapped up a mess of a case, and she was exhausted, but she nodded.

“Yes, of course.”

She and Bell stepped into the hall, surrounded by the impersonal bustle of New York’s finest. He shuffled a bit, quietly nervous. She’d seen that before, and she had an idea of where this was going. She let him gather himself.

“I was wondering if you wanted to go to dinner sometime?” he asked, his face scrunching a little with the upward inflection. It was endearing and sweet, and she couldn’t help grinning.

“I’d love to, Marcus.” Before she could say anything else, Sherlock called for her, impatience ringing in his voice. She rolled her eyes a little, but grinned wider for Bell. “Text me, all right? See you!”

Even as they walked into the harsh grey winter of New York, Joan Watson felt like spring coming alive.

* * *

“This is a _terrible_ idea,” Sherlock said. He was sprawled out on the living room floor, staring up at a constellation of faded faces on the ceiling. Perhaps there was logic to it, but she couldn’t see any, nor could she be bothered to. She ignored him in favor of rifling through her bag to make sure that she had her phone and keys.

“Where is my wallet?” she asked, frowning first at the space where it belonged, then on the giant man-child on the floor. “Did you take my wallet, Sherlock?”

“It’s in the Lighter Than Clyde box,” he said. “This is still a terrible idea. He’s had even fewer significant relationships than you have. I’m looking out for you.”

“Okay, one: you don’t know how many significant relationships either of us has had. Two: this is a date, not a marriage proposal. And three: it’s not really any of your business.”

She fished her wallet out of the box and stood in the doorway for a moment.

“And you don’t have to wait up for me, okay? Just… Have fun doing whatever it is you’re doing. Bye!”

She stepped outside and whistled for a cab, sliding in and giving the driver the address of the restaurant. It was a nice place, with tablecloths and candles on the table. It had all of that proper first date atmosphere, complete with the soft buzz of the other patrons.

Bell was already at the table, and he stood when he saw her come in. The hostess trailed nervously after Joan, a menu in one hand and a chastisement on her tongue that dropped when Bell pulled out Joan’s chair for her.

“Nice place,” Joan said, smiling at the detective. “I haven’t been here before.”

“Me neither,” he admitted sheepishly. “I hear they have good food, though.”

A waiter swept in quickly, studying them with an arched brow. He took their drink orders with hardly a word, disappearing just as suddenly as he’d shown up.

“Uh, you look nice,” Bell said around the rim of his water glass.

“Thank you. You too.”

Things sank into quiet, with only the chatter of the other diners to fill it in. Joan caught one man accusing his girlfriend of being a workaholic, a mother praising her daughter for her success, and a woman asking her date what she thought of Duchamp.

They’d known each other for long enough, in enough peculiar and rough circumstances that this evening should not have been awkward. She’d helped to clear his name when he was being framed, she’d helped to mend his relationship with Sherlock after he was shot, and she’s seen him itching to pull his hair out during a particularly difficult case. There should have been no lulls, no hesitance, no anxious first-date jitters.

This was the pair of them in an entirely new context, though. Brand new chances spread across their horizon, and in a surprisingly rare twist, hardly any of them had murder in them. No matter what she thought, they had been colleagues and friends before he’d asked her to dinner. Now, they had completely different classifications.

She didn’t really mind.

Dinner was fairly boring, since most of their interesting stories involved cases they had worked together. Joan had some funny med school anecdotes, which helped to ease their stiffness, but stories about overcaffeinated and exhausted students could only go so far.

Once Bell had paid the check, insisting that _he_ had asked _her_ out, Joan was prepared to cut her losses and call it a bad date tucked into an otherwise wonderful friendship. The thought left her feeling oddly bereft, though, and she leaned away from it.

Bell stood and waited for her before heading to the door, tucking his hands into his pockets and watching his shoes as they walked.

“This wasn’t the best, was it?” he asked, scuffing one of his fine loafers against the sidewalk. Inspiration flashed in Joan’s mind like a comet, and she grinned.

“Do you want to get ice cream? There’s a good place just a little ways down. They have some of the best in the city. My treat this time!”

Bell looked up, clearly startled by this suggestion. She watched with fondness as he tipped into an easy smile from there. Eagerness replaced the despondency, and she understood why cutting her losses with this relationship would hurt her so much. She liked the detective, quite a lot, and she wanted to see where this would go. She wanted to see if maybe they had a future.

“That sounds great.”

* * *

“I’m back!” Joan called as she closed the door behind her. There was a grunt of acknowledgement from the couch, where Sherlock was spread out, thumbing through a sheaf of gruesome crime scene photos. Judging from the wear on the photos and the soft quality of the film, she figured they depicted older crimes. Maybe Sherlock was looking through cold cases, maybe he was reliving glory days. Who could tell with him?

“I take it your date went well,” he said, adding to the stack of photos beside him. He barely looked up at Joan as she perched on the ottoman.

“It did, actually,” she said. And it had, once they’d decided on ice cream. They’d tried each others’ cones, and when Bell got a small bit of it on his nose, Joan had laughed with more brightness than she’d felt in quite a while. And when he’d kissed her delicately in front of the Brownstone, it had tasted of strawberries and cake batter. There hadn’t been fireworks, but a fine, glowing warmth spread from her sternum and down to her fingertips. It had sparked with promise.

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, pursing his lips as though he was tasting the words before he spat them out. That was a first.

“I suppose, that as long as you’re happy, I have no trouble with it.”

Joan scoffed a little, arching a brow.

“You don’t really have any say in my relationship status,” she said. Sherlock shook his head and waved his free hand around, physically rewinding his words and backtracking.

“No, no, no, I’m not saying that. I am merely saying that I consider Bell a very good friend, and you are my partner, and I would not like to become _entangled_ , should any problems arise.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” Joan said. Sherlock shrugged.

“You are both very important to me. I’d rather that neither of you got hurt. Is that better?”

“Mm, very.” She got to her feet and stretched, listening to the satisfying pop of vertebrae. “I’m going to bed. Night.”

Sherlock just hummed in response. She was briefly taken with the thought of ruffling her friend’s hair as she walked past, but she left the impulse where it was. The palm of her hand buzzed with the thought, though, and she wondered what might happen for hours after.

* * *

Things were easy and brilliant, and Joan became more convinced all the time that this was her best relationship at work. Sherlock, apparently, had given Bell the “hurt my best friend, and I make your life terrible” speech, which had made Marcus laugh and made Joan feel loved. It was childish, but it was one of the many kindnesses Sherlock extended.

They were the same as ever at crime scenes and the precinct, just with a few added touches here and there. Sometimes, Marcus would drift his hand across the small of her back as he led the consultants to the evidence lockup or interrogation room. Every once in a while, Joan would let the back of her hand brush against Bell’s, and they would share small, private smiles as they discussed gruesome murders.

Joan felt like a teenager again, staying up too late and daydreaming about Marcus. They were small little vignettes, like walking through a furniture store and picking a couch together. She built a life in her head, a constellation of tiny adventures. A million stolen and given and promised moments made up an imagined future. She knew that some of these little stories weren’t very realistic or plausible, like eating pastries in Paris, but they were sweet and kind, and they got her through bad days.

She let these daydreams drift through her mind like gossamer, warm and golden and sunlit. She smiled when Marcus handed her a cup of terrible precinct coffee, knowing all the while that the reality was far better than any matchstick dream future she could make up.

* * *

“Hey, do you have any plans tonight?” Marcus asked as he moved around his kitchen. He was gathering the ingredients for a smoothie, while Joan cooked eggs. This was her third morning in his apartment, and her second helping him with breakfast. She liked these mornings, coolly sunlit and normal. There was none of the chaos of morning in the Brownstone.

"Probably not," she said. "What did you have in mind?"

"My friend Ray and his wife invited us to go out tonight. They got tickets to _Lady Day_ , and we'll get dinner after. Do you wanna go?"

"Oh, I heard it was great! Yeah, I'd love to! Were they the ones at Friedman's?"

"No, that was Dave and Lucy. You'll like Ray and Amanda, I think. She's an oncologist, and he's a cop too, in another precinct."

"Okay, yeah, great!" she said. "And also, breakfast's ready. How about those smoothies?"

* * *

It was interesting to gather friends as a couple. Joan had never really had that before. There had been a few significant boyfriends in her history, and one fairly significant girlfriend, but there had never really been enough time to cultivate shared friends. Whether it was the chaos of hospital life or her recovering clients, she’d never really had much time to be particularly social. It was strange to think that she had more free hours chasing killers with Sherlock than she’d had for years. And it was nice to know that she had someone else to share those hours with, if she chose. It felt oddly luxuriant.

Ray and Amanda were charming and sweet, and it wasn’t long before Joan and Amanda were thick as thieves. She loved to surround herself with people, was very nearly a collector of them. Of all of her friends, she was the one who kept in touch with her family most often. She emailed regularly with her brother’s fiancee, she still met up with med school friends for coffee, she even got Christmas cards from her childhood best friend every year. And slowly, slowly, more people were falling into her orbit.

This thought struck her out of the blue while she was having coffee with Amanda one day. It was late morning, and the sky was a heavy, swirling grey outside. It was nice to sit in Amanda’s kitchen and study the storm as it approached, the high, light sounds of her daughter’s laughter chiming in the background. Lily was the spitting image of Ray, but her hair was the same soft auburn as Amanda’s, and she was always tearing through the apartment like hell was at her heels. At one point, Joan swept the little terror up in one smooth motion, leaving an arc of bell-like laughter.

“You’re awfully busy,” Joan said into Lily’s hair. The little girl leaned forward and grabbed at whatever she could on the counter. Her hands splayed out and she squealed with giggled when Joan tickled her belly. Amanda laughed and swept Lily into her arms, saving her from Joan, who was flushed with easy joy.

“You’re pretty good at normal,” Amanda said once Lily was back on the floor with a new toy. She grinned like she had revealed some grand secret, and Joan laughed because maybe she was right.


End file.
